The Night Killer

sideways in the mud for a few feet before he straightened it on the road.
    “We gotta do something about these roads,” he said. “Where were you headed to, anyway?”
    “Looking for a phone,” Diane said.
    “You know, Roy and Ozella Barre live right up the road here. You must have passed their place. I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded you getting them up,” he said.
    “That’s why I was looking for a phone,” Diane said.
    “What’s why you were looking for a phone? You know, you’re not making a lot of sense. You just relax until you feel better.”
    “No, you don’t understand,” said Diane. “I left the Barres’ house earlier this evening, about seven thirty. I had the altercation with the man at the house on Massey Road, and managed to get back to the Barres’ after more than five hours of trudging through the woods on foot.”
    “In all this storm? That must have been quite a hike,” he said.
    “But listen, about the Barres.” Diane stopped, a lump forming in her throat.
    “Afraid to wake them up?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the muddy road.
    “No. It’s much more serious. Look. This is hard,” she said. “The Barres are dead. When I got back here, I found them murdered in their house. Someone has killed them.”
    Deputy Conrad slammed on the brakes. The Jeep fishtailed in the road before coming to a stop. Diane pressed against the seat belt and held on to the dash.
    “What do you mean, killed?” he asked, as if he didn’t know what the word meant.
    “Someone cut their throats. They are sitting at their dining table,” said Diane. “They’re both dead. I found them not more than thirty minutes ago. Their phone is dead too.”
    “Is this for real? This is not some joke, because if it is . . .”
    “I wish it were,” said Diane.
    “I just saw them yesterday at the Waffle House,” he said. “He was all happy about someone from the museum in Rosewood coming to look at his arrowheads.” He looked over at Diane. “I guess that’d be you.”
    “Yes,” she said. “That was me.”
    Deputy Conrad rubbed his hands over his face. “Aw, God.” He looked over at Diane. “You know, you’ve had a hard night. Maybe you’re delirious, maybe you—”
    “Imagined it?” said Diane. “I wish I had. I hope when we get to their house you find them safe in bed and you can yell at me for scaring you.”
    He took his foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator. The tires spun and the Jeep slid sideways toward the ditch before it found traction. Diane heard the mud spattering on the sides and under the vehicle. She sat back in the seat, wet, cold, tired, and depressed.
    “I hope so too,” he said.
    They drove up to the house. It took less than three minutes from where he had picked her up on the road. The water and chocolate were doing some good. Diane was feeling better.
    “I went in as far as the dining room door,” she said. “Short, straight path. I didn’t deviate from the path on my way back out after I found them. I tried the phone near the door. It was dead.”
    He nodded his head. They got out of the Jeep and walked up the steep steps.
    “I didn’t hear anyone in the house,” said Diane, “but I didn’t search it either.”
    “You did right,” he said.
    Deputy Conrad took his gun out of his holster and approached the door. He eased it open with one hand while holding his gun in the other. He slowly walked into the house.
    Diane sat on the porch steps to wait. She clenched her teeth and listened. Just a few steps to the dining room.
    “Oh, Jesus. Roy? Oh, God. Ozella? No.”
    Diane hadn’t imagined it. It was true. They were sitting at the table, heads resting at odd angles, long gashes in their throats. Dead. Diane started to rub her eyes with the tips of her fingers, but stopped and looked at her hands in the dim light. She heard the floor creak and guessed that Deputy Conrad was searching the house.
    She looked out into the night and watched the lightning bugs blink. Mosquitoes were biting and she put her arms under the poncho. She felt the knife. It weighed heavily on her conscience. But not enough to hand it over just yet. The sheriff might not have it examined for blood. It would be clear to him that a stranger out on a rainy night with a knife must be the killer.
    Diane wondered if the killer was the man who attacked her on Massey Road. That seemed more likely. Although he and the Barres weren’t close neighbors, Diane imagined their